


the light in your eyes has been squandered

by elliptical



Series: unbecoming jordan hennessy [6]
Category: Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Everything is awful, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hennessy Is Her Own Content Warning, Suicide, body disposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: Brooklyn pulled Jordan into her lap, and the two shaking girls huddled together on the cold white tile.  Jordan wrapped her arms around Brooklyn and twisted her fingers into claws, gripping Brooklyn’s thin camisole like a lifeline.
Series: unbecoming jordan hennessy [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052732
Kudos: 13





	the light in your eyes has been squandered

Brooklyn had her own ways to forget. 

Or maybe to keep from remembering.

She never knew what the Bad Thing was. It might have been a memory. It might also have been a bad feeling or a physical cramp or a foreboding premonition or a surprised hurt. It might have been a life-or-death terror, or it might have been a pretty boy who’d made an asinine comment about her body hair. These two situations tended to ping the same distressed portion of her amygdala. No telling how dire the stakes really were.

Brooklyn didn’t think much about the gaps in her consciousness. Thinking about them seemed counterproductive to forgetting them, and any itchy obsessive spirals would kill her. The copy directly before her had imploded. Brooklyn wasn’t going to turn self-annihilation into a fucking streak. If the others wanted leaderboards, they could salvage an antique Pac-Man console instead.

Hennessy didn’t name her. “I’m not your fucking mother,” she snarled. Those were her first conscious words to Brooklyn, as blood bloomed bright around her new tattoo, black sludge speckling the corners of her mouth. “Use the internet. Use the library. Find something tolerable, find something heinous, I don’t give a shit. I don’t fucking care.”

So Brooklyn was different from Hennessy. She could not imagine using that furious tone with _anyone,_ and she didn’t think her face could mirror that malevolent expression. She wasn’t sure what caused the disparity between them, since everyone else insisted that Hennessy created perfect copies.

Perfect copy she may be, but she wasn’t Hennessy.

She’d read an article, once, about cat cloning. Or maybe Hennessy had. The attempt to clone a calico cat had resulted in a bi-colored kitty instead, because the scientists only used the genes for two fur colors. Everything about the original and the clone was genetically identical. And yet from the outside, the cats looked completely different.

Or something like that. Brooklyn wasn’t sure she’d remembered right, but the story seemed applicable either way. Maybe she was missing the angry gene. Maybe Hennessy hadn’t given her all of the pieces.

Maybe it was better that way.

She knew that something about Hennessy frightened her.

She knew that she needed to keep moving if she wanted to avoid the Bad Thing.

People were beautiful. This aesthetic appreciation was something that all the girls had in common, since art flowed in their blood. Brooklyn and Hennessy shared another similarity; their appreciation went beyond the aesthetic. _Distractingly_ beyond. Brooklyn didn’t possess the same artistic drive that Hennessy or Jordan did, but she often spent her free days perched on park benches with a sketchpad, scribbling down the notable features of passersby.

She spent her nights in the company of beautiful people. Some of them were Hennessy’s conquests; some were her own. Her taste and Hennessy’s overlapped strongly enough for back-and-forth trading. Brooklyn traced her fingertips over the lips of boys with cheap silver liner penciled above their lashes. She sucked at the necks of girls whose face paint glimmered like butterfly wings. She slept with businessmen who considered her a dirty secret, college guys who considered her a sexy trophy, women who’d never leave their shitty husbands but who wanted to feel alive _just for tonight, just tonight, please._ As each lover slept, she scribbled them in charcoal and oil for safekeeping. She never showed anyone the work. She didn’t want people thinking she’d formed nonexistent attachments.

She did stop sharing Hennessy’s lovers when the situation became... complicated. 

There _were_ certain key differences between them: Brooklyn liked to believe in good intentions, so she slept with more men and made more mistakes and suffered more disappointments. And Hennessy liked mind games that froze Brooklyn solid, as though ice had been injected into her veins, as though she’d exhale pure frost with each breath.

At least, Brooklyn _thought_ that Hennessy liked the games. She didn’t know how else to interpret the things Hennessy did. The pattern repeated, again and again, infinite permutations: 

Hennessy wore the mask of a nonexistent angel, and she basked in the adoration of her partner. They partook in easy banter, they “hung out,” and then they fucked. Nothing romantic to the coupling, nothing unique about the deed. Every time, the sex drove Hennessy higher than a cocktail of cocaine and Adderall and tequila - sex did things to her that even Brooklyn didn’t understand. If Hennessy wasn’t high enough, she would critique and cajole and nitpick until she was. _Bad sex only happens to unconfident losers,_ she’d told Brooklyn once. _Raise your fucking standards._

A meaningless hookup or one night stand could remain just that if only Hennessy would sheathe her claws. Her emotional bonds were forged through viciousness, need, and playacted vulnerability. She never disentangled herself in time; Brooklyn didn’t think she’d ever tried. She gripped the stranger’s body like a starving creature, like a vampire, like she intended to wrap herself inside the other’s skin. She pretended, each time, to find the stranger interesting and worthwhile and deserving of love. 

And then she crushed their heart to oozing, blackened pulp between her fingers. 

Nothing about that felt good to Brooklyn. She didn’t feel good about sweeping up Hennessy’s pieces, or about being blamed for Hennessy’s cruelty, or about the number of people who cried when Hennessy threw them out with the trash. She didn’t feel good about the misery that emanated from Hennessy - a miasma infecting those around her, dragging anything it touched below the surface, just so Hennessy wouldn’t drown alone.

That wasn’t Brooklyn’s game. It wouldn’t ever feel good. At least, Brooklyn prayed that it wouldn’t ever feel good. She still didn’t know how many degrees separated her from Hennessy’s illness.

Brooklyn _wanted_ to feel good. Needed it, maybe. She chased sensation and stimulated her senses and distracted her mind and outran the Bad Thing with the energy of an Olympic athlete. She couldn’t stop, so she didn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t.

Farrah died.

It hit Brooklyn hard, harder than most of the others. Certainly harder than Madox, who responded to her tears with a sneer. 

“Get over it,” Madox said. “We all fucking die in the end. Welcome to the party, take your seat, shut the hell up. You didn’t give a fuck about her. Quit the drama. No one’s going to coddle you - you barely even knew her.”

Brooklyn broke Madox’s nose and clawed the shit out of her face and screamed herself hoarse. She left bleeding gouges over Madox’s cheeks, temples, jaw. She might have tried to cut Madox’s throat at one point, although her memory was hazy. She wrenched Madox’s broken nose violently to the side just to hear her howl with pain, and she jabbed both thumbs into the corners of Madox’s mouth and _pulled._ It felt good. It felt better than she’d ever imagined. Farrah was dead and no one would mourn and that was the most awful thing in the world, the most intolerable fucking awfulness, because Farrah was the only one of them who’d _ever_ had a chance to become someone undamned, and she’d thrown it away.

She’d thrown it all away.

June was the one who dragged Brooklyn off of Madox, but that didn’t mean the altercation was over. She wasn’t done screaming. Her legs kicked at the air, helplessly, and her fists strained to finish the job. June pinned her arms to her sides and wrestled her to the ground and pressed her face into the floor. Madox’s blood oozed beneath her fingernails, crimson coating her fingertips. Madox herself laid on the floor with her torn-up ruin of a face, and she laughed and laughed and laughed, like Brooklyn had told the funniest joke in the world.

So Hennessy really did live inside all of them. The vicious horror just waited for the right moment, the darkness festering unseen, and then it took control. Brooklyn had been a fool to pretend otherwise.

When her fury gave way to renewed tears, June released her grip. “I don’t understand what’s _wrong_ with us,” Brooklyn sobbed, her oxygen-deprived gasps turning to hiccups, snot dribbling from her nose to the tile. “I don’t know why we’re _like this._ I want it to _stop._ ”

“Tough shit, cookie,” said Hennessy from the doorway - choosing, as always, the worst moment to appear. “We are what we are. No changing it. Check the garbage bags for holes before you put anything inside, unless you want a repeat of the Alba catastrophe. Try not to smear the brains and skull and literal shit all over the new car rugs, yeah? I’m not replacing them every single time one of you morons bites it. You’re not worth all that. Toss the trash into a lake or the woods or the dump or a graveyard or an incinerator. I don’t give a fuck. World’s lousy with hidden corpses. Use your imaginations. Don’t get caught. I’m out.”

June looked up, sharp. “You aren’t running point?”

“That’s all the point I’ll run. I’m lying the fuck down. Leave her ‘til later if you can’t stomach the shit. Just remember that good ol’ decay timer ticking away. Tick, tick, tick. Dead bitches ooze all those fucking _juices._ If she stinks up the second floor, I expect every single one of you to sleep in the stench. Lessons learned, tough love, all that jazz. No, I’m not fucking around. So. Don’t leave her too long. Toodles.”

Hennessy vanished from the doorway before anyone could respond.

Jordan took the death worst. Thank God, Brooklyn thought, that she alone had been spared Hennessy’s diatribe. Since Madox’s nose was fucked to shit and her skin had the texture of a cheese grater, Jordan and June and Brooklyn dealt with cleanup. Brooklyn didn’t want to. She didn’t want to. There were no words to express how much she _did not want to._

But they were the only ones left. 

Who had been marked for the next burial? Who did Brooklyn need to mourn, if not all of them? How could any of them make it when this emptiness rotted away every open chest cavity? 

Who else was too fragile to survive the winter?

_Not me,_ Brooklyn told herself fiercely. _Not me. It won’t be me._

“It’s my fault,” Jordan repeated, over and over, a low and semi-conscious mantra. To Brooklyn’s frazzled brain, it had the cadence of a work song. Farrah had done the deed in the shower, so the cleanup should have been easy. But some scattered bits of bone and brain matter had splattered against the wallpaper regardless. Farrah had miscalculated how much force was in the bullet.

The red pulp didn’t look like real gore, at least not to Brooklyn. The whole scene had the held-breath artificial air of a movie set. The pungent smell of shit and blood and illness was unavoidable, but the rot hadn’t yet set in. Brooklyn’s ears rang. Metallic scents clogged her nostrils. She’d wake up, any minute now, any minute now - this was just a nightmare, like Hennessy’s nightmares.

Brooklyn had never dreamed in her life.

“It’s my fault,” Jordan said, crouched on the floor, the sobs shaking her entire body. She rocked, back and forth, back and forth, the rhythm matching her murmurs. She tipped her head back and stared at the blood spatter.

Then she began to claw at the bloody wallpaper with her bare fingernails, and Brooklyn finally woke up.

“It’s not your fault,” Brooklyn said. She grabbed Jordan by the shoulders, yanking her away from the wall; the last thing this group needed was another injury. “It’s not, it’s not, it’s not your fault.”

If anything, it was _Brooklyn’s_ fault. She’d been the last one to see Farrah alive. She’d _known_ that Farrah was upset. She should have followed up, bought her a coffee, talked through the boy drama. Egged the guy’s house, maybe. Kept up the silly antics until Farrah smiled through her tears. Given her a _hug. _Oh, God, she should have-__

__Jordan echoed her thoughts, an eerie mimicry. “I should have done something, I should have talked to her, I was going to-”_ _

__Brooklyn pulled Jordan into her lap, and the two shaking girls huddled together on the cold white tile. Jordan wrapped her arms around Brooklyn and twisted her fingers into claws, gripping Brooklyn’s thin camisole like a lifeline. Brooklyn braced a hand on the back of Jordan’s neck and nuzzled her hair and pressed Jordan’s face into her shoulder, like she should have done for Farrah, oh, God._ _

__Jordan shuddered, weakly attempting to pull back. “I need to-”_ _

__“Go lie down,” Brooklyn said. She hated saying it, because Jordan’s absence meant that Brooklyn would have to complete the most stomach-churning tasks. A two-party cleanup involved lots of hands-on labor. Brooklyn hated volunteering, and she hated this life, and she hated that they couldn’t call an ambulance, and she hated that part of her would always exist in this gore-splattered bathroom, and she hated Hennessy for leaving them, and she even hated Farrah, a little, for fucking them over when she didn’t have to._ _

__Brooklyn didn’t think she’d ever swallowed so much hate._ _

__The hatred _should_ have resurrected whatever demon had possessed her to attack Madox. At least, that would make sense. Violence lurked somewhere inside her gut, ready to erupt, and Brooklyn felt the shaky illness press close like a second skin._ _

__But Jordan was in Brooklyn’s lap, and her shuddering body was wracked with pain and fear and grief, and her voice was moaning low animal sounds. Brooklyn had never imagined this hollow brokenness - not in Jordan, not Jordan of all people, Jordan their protector, Jordan their strength. If Jordan’s pain was unfixable, then the whole world had been knocked askew, and no amount of penance would ever set it right._ _

__Brooklyn didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what to do. She was so tired. The day had been so long, and she was so tired._ _

__She didn’t want to lose Jordan._ _

__None of them could make it without Jordan._ _

__“I should-” Jordan started._ _

__“ _I_ told you to lie down.” That was June, a shadow in the doorway. Brooklyn shifted to find her glaring, hands on her hips, a thundercloud frown on her face. Despite the aggrieved posture, her mouth creased with worry as she surveyed the scene. “I told you to wait for me.”_ _

__“I needed-”_ _

__“Jordan.” June’s tone now was unwavering. She was in charge, here, and Brooklyn sighed with relief. June was the problem solver, the strategist, the leader. She’d fix it. She’d fix everything. Brooklyn never solved anyone’s problems - the best she managed was to avoid creating new ones._ _

__Jordan jerked back and yanked the toilet seat up and vomited. Brooklyn suspected she’d needed to for a while. She retched a few more times, miserably, but failed to produce any substance._ _

__June helped her to her feet and herded her from the room, leaving Brooklyn blankly staring at the body. Her eyes unfocused; her head buzzed. Darkness pressed in at the corners of her vision. She was here, yes, but also somewhere else, running her hands over a man’s unblemished skin and putting her mouth to his collarbones and tasting the salt, the sweat, the _life. _____

____June had to snap her fingers in front of Brooklyn’s eyes several times to jerk her awake. She explained that she’d helped Jordan shower and then put her to bed, and she explained that they should try to keep Hennessy and Jordan apart for a bit._ _ _ _

____Brooklyn didn’t need to ask why._ _ _ _

____“Aren’t you upset?” she asked._ _ _ _

____Madox and Hennessy’s detachment didn’t surprise her, really, once she took a moment to consider the circumstances. But June was more like Jordan than any of the others. June hadn’t _disliked _Farrah, even if they hadn’t been besties. Brooklyn had expected her to understand the yawning cosmic horror, the collapsing awfulness, the gnawing failure of burying a corpse with your face.___ _ _ _

______June closed the toilet lid and sat. She closed her eyes. She placed her elbows on her knees. She leaned forward. For a moment, she looked as tired as Brooklyn felt, her spine curved at a drooping angle, her chin tucked against her neck._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Sure,” June said, a little rough. “Of course I’m upset. But I can’t afford to lose my mind, now, can I?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Is Jordan losing her mind?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______June lifted Farrah’s body by the arm. She did not acknowledge that Brooklyn had spoken. “Help me break this down for transit.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______And that was all._ _ _ _ _ _

______Several minutes later, Brooklyn tried again, softer. “Something’s wrong with Hennessy.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______June nodded. She didn’t flinch, and she didn’t pause in her current task, which was to drain the blood from Farrah’s severed calf so the flesh wouldn’t squelch inside the trash bag. “I know.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Brooklyn swallowed. “Something’s wrong with all of us.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______June shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I think we’re going to die.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Brooklyn could never bring this hushed confession to Jordan. She shouldn’t have brought it to June, especially not like this - not soaked up to the elbows in cleaning solution and viscera and bodily fluids._ _ _ _ _ _

______But the fear was so big and so heavy and such an awful burden._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I think we passed our expiration date,” she said. “Doomed operations, the lot of us. We’ll drop one by one. Lineup doesn’t matter. I’ll bury you. You’ll bury me. Endgame’s the same. We all rot pretty in the ground.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______June’s mouth tightened. Her brow furrowed. She didn’t close her eyes, but that was only because she refused to look away from her work. The piece of Farrah in her hand didn’t look much like a person’s body. Not removed from the larger puzzle, at least. Brooklyn wondered if June was pretending to clean a different mess. Maybe that was how she’d stayed so calm. Conscious denial._ _ _ _ _ _

______June didn’t speak._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Don’t tell me not to say it,” Brooklyn whispered. “I promise Jordan won’t hear.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______June placed Farrah’s first calf into the plastic bag and began to cut through the other, methodical, mechanical. Her hands didn’t shake. Her breathing remained steady. If Brooklyn hadn’t been watching, she would never have noticed the fresh trickle of tears over June’s cheeks._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Yeah,” June finally breathed, as she detached Farrah’s lower leg from the knee. Jagged white bone poked from the gash, sharp enough for weaponry. God, there was so much body left to ruin. “We aren’t coming back from this.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______It did not make Brooklyn feel better to hear her hopelessness echoed. She sat back on the tiles. “Yeah. All right. Sixty-second breather, back in a moment.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’ll finish this,” June said. “We’ve done most two-person tasks already. I can handle the rest. Go rinse off.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Brooklyn didn’t question the reprieve. She dragged herself to her feet. She stumbled away from the stench and the blood and the plastic, and she half-tripped down the stairs. When she shut herself inside an unbloodied bathroom, she ran the shower as hot as it would go. Steam billowed up in clouds._ _ _ _ _ _

______She stepped into the spray without flinching, needing to wash away this whole godforsaken day, this whole godforsaken _life_ \- but even as her skin burned, Brooklyn felt as though she’d never be clean again._ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
